No Shoes, No Shirt
by Hardwood Studios
Summary: AU: Harvey doesn't normally date cashiers, but he can make an exception for Mike. [Harvey/Mike]


_A/n: I wanted to do something a bit AU, so brace yourselves. This is my half baked idea. I'm hoping to keep this short [like, under 2k] and sweet, to balance out the current drama/angst of the season. _

_Warnings? Slash [Harvey/Mike], less than impressive dialogue [because I hate dialogue, but I'm effing trying], and...late nights. You've been warned. _

* * *

It starts with a craving.

A sudden, random craving for crunchy peanut butter. Harvey doesn't much care for peanut butter [more of a nutella man], nor whole peanuts in his peanut butter. He prefers creamy to crunchy, if the decision ever presents itself. Not that it does, because Harvey doesn't get cravings. It isn't dignified to crave. However, he can't seem to shake this [completely undignified] food craving. It settles on his tongue like a Listerine strip. He frowns, flicks off his desk lamp, and makes for the elevator with a small file tucked under his arm.

Pearson Hardman is nothing short of deserted. Just empty cubicles and scant moonbeams scattered on the carpet. He loosens his tie, muses his gelled cap, and basks in the utter aloneness. The elevator ride is brief. He nods to security on his way out, franceschetti shoes smacking faintly. A cab sits by the curb. It breathes out exhaust and glares neon red into the dark, morning veil. He tolerates the stiff, cheap vinyl and the questionable stains, because Ray is off duty until five. Harvey won't wake him a second before.

The cabbie [as questionable as they come] looks over his shoulder, and Harvey says a little urgently, "Grocery store. I don't care which." They set off with a subtle jerk, and Harvey slips the file under the passenger seat for safe keeping. Soon [not soon enough], they stop in front of a Food Emporium. Brightly lit, as classy as a deli can be. "Keep the meter running." He hurries from the cab, conveniently forgetting his icelike charisma in the backseat. He wants his goddamn peanut butter.

He stalks up and down the aisles like a particularly antsy panther. He finds shelves and shelves of peanut butter, colorfully wrapped and boldly lettered. Peter Pan, Jif, Skippy, Goober. Harvey doesn't know much about peanut butter brands. So he picks one of each. With a decidedly hungry [and simultaneously terrifying] look on his face, he makes to checkout. Register six, as advertised by the glowing sign overhead, is the only one available. A man [kid, really] stands behind the counter. Scruffy, but pretty. Not handsome, pretty. Harvey wants to snort.

Eyes like small, habitable planets [if you can picture it]. Blues, greens, millions of nameless shapes, very bright [like a sun sits behind his pupils]. Lashes like powdered caramel, and laughably pink lips. Jacked, sunny tufts of hair. Thin under his grey long sleeve, almost alarmingly so. His name tag reads 'Mike', Harvey notices without meaning to. He promptly drops his armful of peanut butter onto the conveyor belt. The kid [Mike, the name tag reminds him] gives him a look.

"We're having a sale on Smuckers, if you're interested." He says, just on this side of snarky.

"Funny." Harvey deadpans.

"I'm here all week."

He grins. Harvey notices his teeth. White, straight. They're very handsome teeth. Then he frowns at himself for noticing. And appreciating. One by one, Mike rings up the colorful jars. "That'll be $12.87." He says on his second jar, five more to go. Three, four, five, six, seven. $12.87 appears like digital magic. Harvey, despite himself, is impressed. "Impressive. A regular rainman."

Mike makes a face. "I think I should be insulted."

"Got something against autism?"

"Got something against Smuckers?"

And Harvey [maybe, possibly] might be amused. Though he hides it well. He reaches for his wallet, pulling the first bill he feels. "Allergic."

Mike looks incredulous. "To jelly?"

"Discounts." His smirk is something smug. He lays down a single, crisp hundred. With peanut butter in hand, he turns and goes. "Keep the change." He calls without looking back. He doesn't see Mike roll his eyes, but he can picture it. As he slides in the back of his cab, he gives the peanut butter a resentful look. He doesn't want it anymore.

* * *

Another Tuesday, two weeks later. Harvey stays late, proofing the Smithson briefs [a whole twelve boxes]. Proofing is menial work, technically beneath him, but he tells himself this case is too important to botch. He manages five boxes by 2:43. On his way home, in a different [equally distasteful] cab, he stops at a familiar Food Emporium. He tells himself he really, really needs toothpaste. One can never have too many spare tubes. He tells himself he isn't here to see a certain cashier [whose name he definitely doesn't remember].

Harvey has never lied to himself so goddamn much.

He goes out of his way to avoid checkout, and takes long, deliberating minutes in choosing his toothpaste. Because it's important. Very, very important. He decides on Crest. A reputable toothpaste brand if there ever was one. Almost nervously [if Harvey Specter felt any sort of nerves], he makes to checkout. Again, register six is the only one lit. A tiny, outcasted part of him is delighted. Another tiny, outcasted part is scared. The rest of him is steel. And annoyance. A familiar cashier, all reedy and planetary eyes, stands behind the register. Harvey pretends he doesn't recognize him.

"Hey, too-much-peanut-butter-guy." He calls cheerfully. Harvey twitches at the [completely unoriginal] name.

"Don't call me that."

"What, then?"

"Just don't call me."

"Not with that attitude, I won't." Mike smiles. Harvey is momentarily overwhelmed by this tiny stutter in his chest, like a warbler trapped behind his ribs. It surprises him, damn near terrifies him. He shrugs it off, tries for cool and untouchable. He all but throws down his toothpaste, and Mike looks like he might be holding back laughter. "Toothpaste?"

"I take my dental hygiene very seriously."

"Yeah, no, I can see that." He says in mock seriousness. "Fighting the good fight, winning the war against plaque one tooth at a time."

"You say that like its witty."

"That'll be $4.23."

And Harvey is enjoying this conversation, to the point he doesn't want it to end. Which is concerning. Harvey isn't one for small talk, but this isn't small talk. It's banter, repertoire. It's fun. Which is even more concerning. So he rips out a twenty, grabs his Colgate, and beats a strategic retreat [runs away]. He vows never to return, because [pretty, clever] cashiers don't make him smile.

* * *

The third time, Harvey doesn't bother deluding himself. He kind of [really, _really_] wants to see Mike. So he walks into the very same Food Emporium, at roughly 2:15 [another Tuesday, a mere week later]. Harvey knows he can't pass it off as coincidence, so he doesn't try. He picks up the first box of what-the-fuck-ever, and strolls [very casually] into checkout. As per usual, Mike stands [slouches] behind register six. Like a pup, he perks at the familiar sight of moles and slick hair.

Harvey doesn't say anything, just drops his box on the conveyer belt and maintains deliberate eye contact. Mike looks down. Both, blonde brows shoot up. "That's a little presumptuous. I don't even know your name." He has this wide [shit eating] grin, and Harvey blinks a little confusedly. Finally, he looks at his purchase. A box of Durex XXL stares him in the face. Condoms. Heat fills his face. Harvey isn't one to get embarrassed, but goddamn. He wants to die. Or hit something.

He bounces back quickly. "You're not my type, kid." Lie, such a lie.

"Damn. And here I thought you just wanted to see me." [ _i do, i won't say it though _]

"Don't flatter yourself. It's unbecoming." [ _don't listen to me, you're incredibly becoming _]

Still with that big smile, he rings up the box and bags it. Harvey pays [another outrageous bill, probably a hundred], and takes his bag. They stare at each other, and it's not awkward. It's nice, actually. Harvey doesn't want to leave yet, he can admit that, and Mike doesn't want him to go. They just take this brief, comfortable moment under the low fluorescence. Mike laughs suddenly. "Congratulations, by the way." He gestures to the bag. A suggestive wink, and that damn smile. "Your date must be thrilled."

Harvey is very good with words, they're his weapon of choice. Right now, they elude him. He needs to get his point across somehow [ _i don't have a date, i like your smile, i just wanted to see you _]. He simply says, "Harvey." And turns to go.

"Same time next week, Harvey?" Mike calls after him. Because Mike is smart, and he understands all the obscure meanings and prolonged staring. Harvey smiles to himself. Same time next week. Baby steps.

* * *

Same time next week. Tuesday, maybe 2:16 or so. Just as empty and quiet as the last three visits. Harvey doesn't bother buying anything, there's no more pretense between them. Mike is at his usual station, hunched over the counter, chin cradled in his palm. A pair of white buds sit in his ears, blasting something bass heavy. He bobs his head rhythmically. Denim clings to his legs like cheap, blue skin. A black T-shirt rides high, and Harvey sees the small knobs of his spine. He wants to bite them. Mike hasn't noticed him yet.

He walks around the counter, and drops his elbows on the conveyer belt. Mike rears back with a surprised shout. He rips the earphones from his head, and glares at Harvey with all the fierceness he can muster. "You're a dick."

"That's not very nice."

"Yeah, well - "

"Hungry?" Harvey interrupts. Mike frowns, thin brows pinching together. "What?"

"Are you hungry?"

"I...could eat. I guess." He says slowly.

"We should get dinner. You're alarmingly thin."

"Wha-? Alarmingly? I am not!"

"You are. So let's get dinner."

Mike makes a huffy, exasperated noise. "It's two in the morning. No one gets dinner at two in the morning."

"We do."

"Are you on something? Running a fever, maybe?" He asks, only partly joking. Harvey leans close, and they're breathing the same air. Mike shrinks back nervously.

"I know a place, great burgers." Harvey says seriously, and Mike is a little thrown.

"I don't get off until five!" His last line of defense, because this is somewhat crazy. Harvey shrugs. "I can wait."

Mike swallows at the intensity behind that definite statement. His mouth is suddenly dry. "Two hours and forty one minutes? That's kind of a long time."

"I don't mind."

"I thought I wasn't your type."

"Did I say that?"

Mike is tempted to laugh, because now Harvey is turning on the charm. Easy smile, hooded eyes, laugh lines and loose shoulders. "You did. It actually hurt my feelings."

"Can I make it up to you?" Harvey tips closer. He smells like freshly printed paper and fast fading cologne [Alexander Julian, maybe]. Hints of peppermint with every soft, even breath. Mike rather likes the sophisticated mixture, and he likes the way Harvey is looking at him. Like he's edible and special at the same time. "You can try." He whispers without meaning to. Almost immediately, Harvey is crowding into his space and kissing him like it's the first and the last and the best they've ever had. It is.

Their lips press hard and slide against the grain. Mouths open, teeth bang together, tongues tangle into this impossible, wet knot. It's feeling too, not just physicality. Intricate, vast feeling that can't be understood. Just felt, and subsequently accepted. They pull away with a faint smack. They stare again, then they laugh. A happy laugh, not a let's-pretend-this-never-happened laugh.

Harvey ends up waiting until five. They sit, talk, get to know each other over the next two hours and forty minutes. Just every day, easy facts. Like Harvey works at a law firm, and Mike has an eidetic memory. Then they leave together, and they get burgers. Harvey doesn't normally date cashiers, but he can make an exception for Mike.


End file.
